...kind of.
I hadn't been home since September, and I wasn't home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It's strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.
For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie's Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn't as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn't gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I'm a depressive. But if I can't be sad about this, what can I be sad about?
I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don't miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because this is where we go and have gone for 10 years. There is always a friend there. I don't have that in SF, not even after almost three years.
One thing I've learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years' time.
I hadn't been home since September, and I wasn't home for 10 minutes before I walked out to the backyard and burst into tears. It's strange how home — the place I spent my first 18 years, and significant moments of the ensuing 13 — can develop an unpleasant patina. Everything has a different weight.
For instance: The backyard is where I had a little zip line and Annie's Roost, the treehouse Dad built for me. Both are gone now, and the yard isn't as meticulously maintained as it once was. So I go there and remember, but I also see the absence of what used to be. I miss my father terribly. I am embarrassed to admit that a day hasn't gone by without me crying about missing him, because then it seems like I'm a depressive. But if I can't be sad about this, what can I be sad about?
I am just getting home from a night out with Jesse, JC, Miles, and (unexpectedly) Tim and John and Jimk. While I don't miss certain aspects of Chicago (pollution, sprawl, noise) I miss my friends and family terribly. I miss walking into my old haunts to meet them and then running into other friends because this is where we go and have gone for 10 years. There is always a friend there. I don't have that in SF, not even after almost three years.
One thing I've learned lately is that your old friends really are often the best ones, because they know all of your sullied parts and love you anyway. And vice versa. I am lucky to have them, and am equally grateful for newer friends who will be old ones in 10 years' time.
This weekend, the city felt different — foreign, almost. Maybe it was because of the sunshine and warmth, or maybe it was just that I'd been cooped up all week and was grateful to get outside for a little while. Whatever the reason, walking around felt like being somewhere else. I watched strangers dance with each other by the BART station, bought a burrito, then picked up some books from the library.
I know this is a silly thing to notice and I'll seem vaguely anti-lady by bringing it up, but: The exterior of the library has a dozen or so authors' names carved into its stone. Dickens, Twain, so on and so forth. But what's odd is that at the bottom of one list, it says geo. eliot.
The library was built in 1915, the same year T.S. Eliot published Prufrock. I like to think that some stuffy librarian didn't like this shady T.S. Eliot character's nonsensical yip-yap, and before those names were carved, he or she rushed out to send the construction crew this message: "No, wait! Make sure it says GEORGE, so they know we aren't talking about that sexually frustrated poet!"
In this daydream-history, the uptight librarian felt the need to tell the world that at the Mission District library, one could expect Serious Literature such as Middlemarch rather than looney-tunes silliness about singing mermaids and peach-eating. There's probably a logical explanation behind the geo. eliot, but this speculation is infinitely more dramatic and funny, no?
I know this is a silly thing to notice and I'll seem vaguely anti-lady by bringing it up, but: The exterior of the library has a dozen or so authors' names carved into its stone. Dickens, Twain, so on and so forth. But what's odd is that at the bottom of one list, it says geo. eliot.
The library was built in 1915, the same year T.S. Eliot published Prufrock. I like to think that some stuffy librarian didn't like this shady T.S. Eliot character's nonsensical yip-yap, and before those names were carved, he or she rushed out to send the construction crew this message: "No, wait! Make sure it says GEORGE, so they know we aren't talking about that sexually frustrated poet!"
In this daydream-history, the uptight librarian felt the need to tell the world that at the Mission District library, one could expect Serious Literature such as Middlemarch rather than looney-tunes silliness about singing mermaids and peach-eating. There's probably a logical explanation behind the geo. eliot, but this speculation is infinitely more dramatic and funny, no?
Labels: books
It has been quite a week. Regular-ish updates to resume shortly.
In other news: I am participating in the 826 Valencia 5-Minute Volunteer Reading Series next week. I'm tired of suffering for my art. It's your turn.* The event is at Amnesia on Tuesday, 7pm. To be followed by an excursion to the monthly emo night, because as we all know, nothing says "party" like listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. See you then.
*Good writers borrow, great writers steal. (Thanks, AS.)
In other news: I am participating in the 826 Valencia 5-Minute Volunteer Reading Series next week. I'm tired of suffering for my art. It's your turn.* The event is at Amnesia on Tuesday, 7pm. To be followed by an excursion to the monthly emo night, because as we all know, nothing says "party" like listening to Sunny Day Real Estate. See you then.
*Good writers borrow, great writers steal. (Thanks, AS.)
Labels: sunny day real estate, vanity
I went to the café tonight. Across the room, a man sat alone with a pot of tea and a glass of water. He had no book, no phone, no newspaper, and a direct view of the door. He sat quietly and patiently and looked toward the entrance with a steady look in his eyes. It was ten to 9; he must be waiting for someone, I thought.
Nine came and went. He remained alone, quiet, looking — not watching, looking. Every so often I'd glance up and he was still doing the same thing, as though waiting for something without knowing what it was. He didn't look miserable, but his face was slightly melancholy.
So now is the part where you get to guess what happened next!
Was it...
Or is this what happened?
I report, you decide.
Nine came and went. He remained alone, quiet, looking — not watching, looking. Every so often I'd glance up and he was still doing the same thing, as though waiting for something without knowing what it was. He didn't look miserable, but his face was slightly melancholy.
So now is the part where you get to guess what happened next!
Was it...
I don't know what came over me, but I walked over to his table. "Hello," I said. "Are you waiting for someone?" (SO NOSY.)
The man looked surprised. "No," he replied.
"Are you all right?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay."
So I smiled and wished him a good evening. Then I trudged back to my table and felt like a royal jerk. He continued to sit and stare alone, and I returned to stringing words together.
Or is this what happened?
The minutes ticked by. He removed his sweater, got up for some water, and put the sweater back on. Finally, at 9:13, his eyes focused and brightened. I followed his gaze toward the entrance, where a shortish woman in a corduroy skirt and wool jacket was dragging a suitcase behind her. Their eyes met; the world disappeared around them. When she reached his table, she cupped his face in her hand and kissed his forehead.
I report, you decide.
Labels: strangers
Because I grew up in the country and have lived in cities as an adult, suburbs simultaneously fascinate and confuse me. It is strange that suburban San Francisco bears much resemblance to suburban Chicago, all chain stores and wide intersections that lead you to cloverleaf exchanges.
Yesterday I drove to Mountain View for the first time. No mountains were viewed, but the psychic cleaners sign made me laugh. I saw it while driving around like a slow-witted crazy person trying to locate my destination. Found some irony in Google Maps giving wrong directions to its own town.
I'd rented a Smart car not because it was cool, but because it cost half of what other rentals did. (Miser.) Word to the wise: If the bulk of your trip involves highway driving, you may want to rethink this plan of action. It had been a couple of years since I'd driven a Smart, and what I remembered as quirks turned out to be terrifying safety hazards.
For instance: Most cars will shift from first to second gear rather smoothly. You press the gas pedal, it crescendos into a vroom and then gently slides into another one. Easy, seamless, fast. But in the Smart, this is the acceleration process:
1: Press gas pedal, maybe even all the way to the floor.
2: Wait one second. Slightly panic when car does not respond at all.
3: Second gear kicks in.
4: Wait one more second, hope air bags work, and then feel the car finally thrust forward.
Essentially, it's like working a manual transmission in slow motion, except the rest of the world isn't slowing down with you. That is some Quantum Leap stuff right there.
The other thing to note with Smarts is that other drivers — especially those in Hummers and other house-sized vehicles — tend to marvel at its wee size. I caught a few drivers looking at it with peculiar expressions, but they were probably laughing at the tiny car instead of its tiny driver who was howling along to its tiny stereo. On the way home, I discovered that anything past 85 miles per hour is pushing it a little too much. (Cars are not supposed to wobble and vibrate, right?)
Final verdict: the car was entertaining/terrifying enough for Saturday's suburban jaunt, but squeezing four grown women into a Smart (see above) provides more oh-god-we're-gonna-die thrills.
Labels: travel
The sun is different in California. I said this to JC last year, and he didn't believe me. "The sun's the sun," he said. But when he and Alex visited and the morning light roused them, he reconsidered. Other non-Californians have said the same thing: the light is softer somehow.
While walking around in the mornings, I like seeing how the light bounces off buildings. I enjoy watching pigeon shadows soar over sidewalks, and I love the days when the fog rolls in elsewhere but I'm standing in sunshine.
This week has brought happy news from friends: a pregnancy, an engagement, a new job. These things made me smile, choke up a little in the good way, find a moment of quiet pride for them. "There is magic out there in the world," one commented.
There is, and during my morning and evening walks I usually look for a little of it. Sometimes I literally stop and smell flowers, which is so maudlin, but since my dad died, I try to appreciate things like that more. And I am trying to shift my viewpoints overall. Lately I'm trying to find different perspectives by radically redecorating my room, finding new routes to familiar places, and looking at the city as though I were a visitor. I keep going back to an Einstein quote that Toby sent me a few weeks ago:
"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
Monty, I'll take door number two. 2.
Labels: emo spice
While walking north on Valencia just now, I saw a well-dressed woman talking to a tree. This in itself is not noteworthy, because people talk to inanimate objects more often than you might expect.
As I got closer, I saw that she was talking to a boy, maybe five years old, who had climbed the tree and wedged himself into a crook of the tree. He was wearing brown corduroys, a striped t-shirt, a devilish smile, and a light blue bicycle helmet. (No bicycle nearby.) He had a bad case of the giggles.
"Now _______," his mother said as I approached. "What do we always say is the most important thing to remember?"
The boy paused to think for a moment. Then, in all earnestness: "DON'T POOP IN YOUR PANTS."
I burst out laughing, the mother sighed, the boy looked vaguely confused, and we all carried on with our afternoons.
As I got closer, I saw that she was talking to a boy, maybe five years old, who had climbed the tree and wedged himself into a crook of the tree. He was wearing brown corduroys, a striped t-shirt, a devilish smile, and a light blue bicycle helmet. (No bicycle nearby.) He had a bad case of the giggles.
"Now _______," his mother said as I approached. "What do we always say is the most important thing to remember?"
The boy paused to think for a moment. Then, in all earnestness: "DON'T POOP IN YOUR PANTS."
I burst out laughing, the mother sighed, the boy looked vaguely confused, and we all carried on with our afternoons.
Labels: san francisco, strangers
So I have this running joke that if you complain about something, it magically gets better. For instance, if you tolerate a noisy car alarm for a while and then grouse about it, it somehow stops honking the second you finish your sentence. Sounds silly, but time and time again, voicing a well-timed and valid complaint seems to work. (This belief has been proven so often that one of my colleagues says that I control the world with my mind. I wish.)
But:
While we were walking down Guerrero tonight, Craig found a file folder holder on the street. "Crazy," he said. "Just yesterday I was saying I need one of these." So he picked it up.
Then, as Meg and I were discussing the home organizer's belief that our new feng shui-ed out kitchen setup would bring more money into our lives, we stumbled upon some cash on the sidewalk. (Meg used it to leave a generous tip at the ice cream parlor.)
Yesterday, I said that I wanted a cupcake; an hour later, Sabrina, not knowing of my cupcake lust, IMed me to say that I should come over and grab one of the treats she'd baked. Bingo! Cupcakes. Today, I wished I had a better umbrella because mine is broken, and one randomly arrived in the mail.
I don't believe in The Secret and all of that new agey manifestation stuff, but I do love odd coincidences like this. Tomorrow, I will wish for Ryan Gosling and Kate Moennig to deliver a bucket of kittens. Will provide updates when this inevitable event goes down.
But:
While we were walking down Guerrero tonight, Craig found a file folder holder on the street. "Crazy," he said. "Just yesterday I was saying I need one of these." So he picked it up.
Then, as Meg and I were discussing the home organizer's belief that our new feng shui-ed out kitchen setup would bring more money into our lives, we stumbled upon some cash on the sidewalk. (Meg used it to leave a generous tip at the ice cream parlor.)
Yesterday, I said that I wanted a cupcake; an hour later, Sabrina, not knowing of my cupcake lust, IMed me to say that I should come over and grab one of the treats she'd baked. Bingo! Cupcakes. Today, I wished I had a better umbrella because mine is broken, and one randomly arrived in the mail.
I don't believe in The Secret and all of that new agey manifestation stuff, but I do love odd coincidences like this. Tomorrow, I will wish for Ryan Gosling and Kate Moennig to deliver a bucket of kittens. Will provide updates when this inevitable event goes down.
Labels: neuroses
Tonight, down in the bowels of Powell Street station, a very skinny woman with wild hair and wilder eyes was talking with a man. Talking at him, more accurately, because he had that polite but uncomfortable "mm-hmm" face. The thought bubble above his head read "Please, god, get me out of here."
She wanted money and, as you might guess, he did not want to give any to her. "Give me a dollar and I'll go away," she bellowed. She had a voice like a dying bullhorn. He tried to reason with her. "Gimme a dollar!" she continued. His train arrived and he darted away.
The woman slowly spun around on her bird-legs, her glazed eyes scanning the crowd of people. The trains were running late (thanks, MUNI) so the platform was more crowded than usual. As she made her way toward the bench where I was sitting, I stood up real casual-like and quietly walked about 10 feet away. It felt like backing off from a puma while wearing a coat made of filet mignon.
The woman accosted two more people before coming my way. She almost didn't; she walked past me, then turned back to begin her pitch. She stood maybe 18 inches away from me, a little closer than I like most people to be. Up close, her face was even sadder. It was gaunt, deeply wrinkled, and pained. There was an inch-wide gap where four of her bottom teeth should have been. Even covered with a layer of glassiness, the bright blue of her eyes hinted at past beauty.
Here we go, I thought.
"Hey, miss! You can help me," she said. "I need money."
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you," I replied.
"You know what your problem is? You can help me but you don't want to give me your money," she yelled. (She had a point.)
She started sticking her index finger in my face. "I'll tell you what's wrong with you," she ranted. "You won't help me and you're dirty inside, sick soul, sick sick soul! You don't listen to me but I can see where you're going, I see the darkness in you. You can help me and you won't, you black heart."
A smarter person would have just let that ride, but having witnessed her badger that man, I realized that being polite would get me nowhere. So I decided to pull the alpha female card and hope that there wasn't a shiv hiding in her sweatshirt.
"I'm sorry that I can't help you, and I'm sorry that you've got me all wrong," I said in a loudish and firm voice. "Please leave me alone now."
She glared at me. "I see where you're going and it's a bad place," she hissed. "You have no idea what you're in for." Then she wandered off to approach the next person.
A pretty woman a few feet away gave me a sympathetic look. "Cheese on Aeron," she said, shaking her head.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Cheese on Aeron."
I still couldn't understand, and I began to wonder if I was actually having a nutty dream about gouda and Herman Miller. So I asked her to repeat herself again.
"She's. On. Air-o-in." The woman tapped her arm.
Ohhhhh. Right. "Sad," I said.
"I know," said the pretty woman.
I didn't regret not giving the scrawny woman money, because, well, it was clear she needed a fix. I did feel sorry for her, though. My train came soon after she disappeared into another part of the station. On the way home I wondered how she wound up being who she is. She was a little girl once, I thought, and this cannot be how she imagined her life. How does a person go from one point to another to this?
Then I thought about the heroin-kicking taxi driver, as I often do when a cab blows by. Is he staying clean? Is he struggling? Does he imagine that a stranger is quietly wishing that he'll make it? The answers will never reveal themselves, but tonight I hoped that he sees where he's going, and it's a good place.
Labels: san francisco, strangers
Earlier this week, my roommate brought in a personal organizer to help her with her office and bedroom. Or maybe the woman should be called an organizing expert. I don't know what the official job title is, but the end result is a much tidier space. Looking at Meg's freshly neatened closet made me glare at my own disastrously messy one. In my defense, mine is pretty Lilliputian. Still.
Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.
In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.)
Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008.
Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.
I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them.
As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.
Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.
In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.)
Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008.
Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.
I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them.
As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.
Labels: neuroses
After work, I decided to take the train to 16th Street. It was a bit of a roundabout way to get home, but when the sun stays out later than it used to, you might as well enjoy it. My little limp comes out if it's rained recently, but the important thing is to keep walking despite the ache, and so I did.
I have taken thousands of steps on Valencia Street, but no matter what happens there, it always reminds me of the afternoon I arrived in San Francisco. I'd been driving for days and was excited and scared to be somewhere new. Dad was in the passenger seat, taking in the details of a neighborhood he'd never seen. "I think you're going to be happy here," he said.
"I hope so," I replied.
Before sunset, we drove up and down the steepest parts of Russian Hill. The experience filled both of us with glee, and Dad's delighted laughter revealed a glimpse of the little boy he'd once been. Even then I knew it was a moment I'd always remember. I was freshly 29, he was 76, and while pushing our way up those inclines, we were young together.
Labels: dad, san francisco
